2 Bodies for the Price of 1 (9 page)

“Three hundred fifty-nine, plus a deposit. You want the same service plan as before?”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“And the same number?”

“Yes.”

“I need your name and cell phone number.”

Carlotta gave it to her and tapped her foot, impatient to hear any messages that might have accumulated for her. Had her father called back? Left a number where she could reach them? Told her their whereabouts?

“Uh, there’s a problem,” the girl said, squinting at the computer screen.

“What kind of problem?”

“Your account is, like, way overdue.”

Carlotta straightened. “Maybe a little—”

“And your balance is like huge.”

“It can’t be
that
big.”

“Try sixteen-hundred dollars, lady.”

Carlotta’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.”

“Says here you got another phone just last week—our top of the line model. And you’ve been using it to make international calls?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t buy a new phone and I don’t make international calls.”

“Maybe you forgot.”

Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “No, I didn’t forget.”

The girl shrugged. “Sorry, I have to go by what it says on the screen and it says you can’t buy any more equipment until you’ve paid off your balance.”

“But I don’t have sixteen-hundred dollars!”

“Wow, it sucks being you.” The girl reached forward and plucked the camera phone from Carlotta’s hand.

Carlotta wanted to scream, but in the back of her mind, she thought of the stack of unopened bills at home—how long had it been since she’d looked at her statement? She just sent in a check for fifty bucks every once in a while and as long as the phone kept working, it seemed like an adequate payment strategy.

But maybe the company charged late fees, interest.

“I at least need to access my voice-mail messages,” she said weakly.

“No can do. You have to go through customer service, but they’ll expect a payment first.”

She bit her tongue, trying not to think about the crippled phone that might contain a message from her father. Steeped in a frustrated fog, she headed for the mall entrance nearest the Lenox Marta station. At least she’d be able to pick up her car and not have to depend on the train during her involuntary vacation.

She boarded to ride south, giving in to the sway of the train as her unoccupied mind raced in circles. The events of the last several days descended on her and she could feel a prick of panic on the periphery of her consciousness, threatening to unravel the tightly woven facade she tried to maintain.

Scenes replayed in Carlotta’s mind—Wesley’s arrest, the reopening of her father’s case, Angela Ashford’s murder, Peter’s arrest, the subsequent attempt on her own life, her father’s phone call, Wesley’s irresponsible antics, her suspension. And ever-present was the guilt over just wanting her life back, fighting the temptation to run away like her parents had. To wipe the slate clean and simply start over someplace new, maybe in a tropical setting. She could sell souvenirs on a beach somewhere, meet a guy who’d never heard of Randolph Wren, who had a regular job that had nothing to do with her father’s old firm or law enforcement or moving bodies—

When the train lurched to a halt, her head snapped up and she realized she’d missed the east-west connection station of Little Five Points by three stops. Then a rogue memory slid into her mind and she gasped. She’d completely forgotten her appointment with Michael’s therapist, Dr. Delray.

A frantic glance at her watch told her she had been expected forty-five minutes north five minutes ago.

She lumbered off the train and sat in a miserable lump on a bench waiting for another train to take her back in the opposite direction. This was shaping up to be one of the worst days ever.

Over an hour later, Carlotta alighted from the westbound train to walk the two blocks to the service station. She felt herself zone out to the point that she seemed disembodied. She could see herself walking, shoulders hunched, moving at a snail’s pace. When she finally reached the grubby, deserted lobby of the repair shop, she couldn’t remember exactly how she’d gotten there and had the bizarre feeling that she’d blacked out, that she’d lost a block of time.

She shook herself and glanced around the smelly shop with trepidation. Since Chance Hollander had recommended this place, chances were good that something shady was going on in the back room. She just hoped that Wesley wasn’t somehow involved. She rang a bell on the counter, ready to do battle if her car wasn’t ready.

An ass-scratching guy appeared. His shirt patch read Ted and he wore a slightly bewildered expression.

“Hi,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “I’m Carlotta Wren and I’m here to pick up the Monte Carlo.”

“Very funny.”

“Excuse me?”

Ted gave a little laugh, then crossed his arms. “That’s a good one, you almost got me.”

She squinted. “Is my car ready?”

He scratched his jowly cheek. “It ain’t here.”

“Where is it?”

He lifted his hands. “You already picked it up, lady.”

Her eyes went wide. “Uh, apparently not, since I’m standing right here.”

He leaned into the counter and spoke to her as if she were addled. “I saw you with my own eyes.” He shoved a piece of paper in her direction. “There you go.”

At the top of the paper was the imprint of her credit card and at the bottom was her signature, dated an hour earlier. Carlotta’s vision blurred and she pressed her hand against her throbbing temple. Was she losing her mind? Had she picked up her car and simply forgotten?

She was suddenly overcome with the most pervasive sense of utter exhaustion. Minor aches and pains—her pinched feet, her pressurized temples, her strained shoulders—seemed to converge and amplify, sending waves of stinging awareness cascading over her body. She leaned against the counter for support, breathing deeply. Her job, her parents, Wesley, their debt, Peter. The mountain of stress had depleted her energy and was messing with her mind. In that desperate moment, Carlotta understood why people turned to drugs and booze for temporary relief. Right now she’d give anything for a reprieve from reality.

After all that she’d been through, she had fooled herself into thinking that she could deal with anything on her own. But it had become too overwhelming…she had obviously reached her emotional limit, she thought as she gazed wildly at the hairy man behind the counter. This wasn’t the life she was supposed to have.

“Lady, are you okay?”

She crumpled the paper in her hand and murmured, “Yes. Thank you.” Then she stumbled out into the deserted parking lot and turned in a full circle, fighting the panic that clawed at her. Bright spots of light flashed behind her eyelids and her hands began to shake. Her mother, Valerie, had once been checked into a hospital for exhaustion, the elitist code for a nervous breakdown. Along with the gap between her front teeth, had she inherited her mother’s “crazy” gene?

Carlotta bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. Great. On top of everything else, she was going insane.

Minus ten points.

11

“P
opular day to die,” Wesley remarked wryly, closing the van door on their last scheduled pickup.

“Some days are more preferred than others,” Coop agreed as they wheeled the gurney toward the morgue delivery entrance.

“Do you ever get used to the smell?” Wesley asked with a grimace.

“I’m a mouth breather. And yeah, you get used to it.”

Coop stopped at an intercom to identify himself and their cargo, and they were buzzed in. Coop moved through the cold, harshly lit hallways of the morgue with ease and familiarity, even whistling under his breath.

His old stomping grounds, Wesley had learned, although he didn’t know the full details of why Coop no longer worked at the morgue. And although almost everyone treated Coop with respect, the chief medical examiner had made his presence known more than once, and it had always resulted in words between the two men. But just as they had several times that day, they handed off the body to a crypt orderly and retraced their steps to the exit with no incident. Coop continued to whistle, but his shoulders seemed tense, as if he expected a confrontation.

“Craft,” Wesley heard behind them.

They turned to see Dr. Abrams, the coroner, moving toward them. He wore stained scrubs, but unlike previous encounters, the man’s body language seemed conciliatory.

“Yeah, Bruce. What’s up?” Coop asked.

Abrams looked grim. “Got a jumper on the Seventeenth Street bridge—a woman and it’s bad. I sent a couple of M.E.s to the scene, but I need someone experienced to help recover the body.”

Wesley swallowed hard, remembering how he’d tossed his cookies after helping Coop peel a teenager off Interstate 75.

“I can do it,” Coop said.

“I’d appreciate it,” Abrams said with a curt nod, then walked away.

“You up for this?” Coop asked him as they returned to the van.

“Sure,” Wesley said, hoping he sounded braver than he felt. At least he hadn’t scarfed down a burrito beforehand like last time.

Dusk was falling and traffic was thick. With the aid of a magnetic flashing light that Coop put on top of the van, they made the drive in about ten minutes. The scene was impossible to miss with flashing lights both on the bridge and below on the interstate. Traffic was backed up to the horizon. Wesley’s chest swelled with importance when Coop flashed ID that allowed them to proceed through the emergency vehicles. But as they approached the corded-off area, Wesley braced himself for the sight of the body.

Considering that he could see at least three sheeted locations, this was shaping up to be a bad scene.

Suddenly a man appeared in front of the van and held up his arm. Wesley recognized Detective Jack Terry. Coop stopped and waited as Terry strode to the driver side window and looked in.

“Wesley,” he said, “I need for you to get out and stay with me.”

Wesley frowned. “What? Why? I can handle this.”

“Just do it,” the detective said, his voice strangely gentle. The detective exchanged a glance with Coop and gave him an almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if to say not to question him.

The hair on the back of Wesley’s neck stood up. Something was very wrong. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why.”

The detective’s jaw hardened and Wesley realized suddenly that the big man was fighting emotion. “It’s Carlotta.”

“What about Carlotta?” Wesley asked, his voice spiking in a squeak. Then he realized the detective was holding a driver’s license—a familiar driver’s license. Disbelief stabbed him even as he glanced up to the bridge to see the jumper’s abandoned car sitting amidst flashing squad cars.

A dark blue Monte Carlo. Carlotta’s car.

12

J
une Moody handed Carlotta a second Blue Moon martini to go with the cigar she’d managed to smoke to half its original size. “So you have no idea what happened to your car?”

Carlotta sipped the martini, grateful she’d had the presence of mind to seek out June at Moody’s Cigar Bar. The sixtyish woman was a brick wall disguised as a lacy curtain. “I simply don’t remember picking it up, but I must have. I probably parked it somewhere in the mall’s parking garage.”

“It’ll turn up,” June said. “You wouldn’t be the first person to forget having done something. And with the stress you’ve been through, it’s understandable.”

“Thanks.” Carlotta took a drag on the cigar. She could get used to these. They delivered a bigger punch than her ultra lights. And she hadn’t felt something this substantial in her hand in…a long damn time.

“So what else is bothering you?” June asked, inhaling on her own stogie with the practiced ease of a woman who ran a cigar establishment.

Carlotta barked a laugh. “The latest? I heard from my long-lost father.”

June’s expression turned serious. “I thought he was—”

“A fugitive? Yep. He called me on my cell phone this week, can you believe it? I was so stunned, I dropped my phone and hung up on him.”

“Did you inform the police?”

Carlotta shook her head, enjoying the way the alcohol made everything swimmy. “I should, shouldn’t I?”

“That’s your decision, honey.”

Carlotta took another drink. “I’m tired of making decisions. I’m tired of being responsible.”

June nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re just going to let everything ride?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to tell your brother?”

“I don’t know. Wesley doesn’t need another reason to misbehave.”

“There you go, being responsible again.”

Carlotta frowned. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“Okay.” June leisurely stirred her own martini. “So…you and Cooper Craft.”

Carlotta frowned harder. “There is no ‘me and Cooper Craft.’”

“That’s not what I observed the other day when you ran into him in here.”

“He’s my brother’s boss. Do you know that the man moves bodies for a living?”

“Someone has to. And Coop’s a good guy.” She winked. “Cute, too.”

Carlotta blushed, remembering Cooper’s confession a couple of weeks ago that he was “crushing” on her.

They had been in front of the town house, Coop waiting for Wesley. Caught off guard, Carlotta had protested that they didn’t have anything in common, that he was an intellectual. And Coop had insisted that she was smarter than she wanted people to believe. “Do you know him well?” she asked June.

“I guess so. I knew him in the bad days.”

“The bad days?”

“His drinking days. When he was the chief medical examiner.”

She squinted to recall what Jack Terry had told her about Coop’s past. “I heard he was fired.”

“He was, and it got nasty. But he’s gotten his life back on track, and he seems happier now.”

“He was a big help in solving Angela Ashford’s murder.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. I heard he was the best at what he did. So you’re not interested in Coop, huh? Is there someone else?”

Carlotta squirmed as the images of two other men dodged in and out of her mind. “It’s complicated.”

June laughed. “Honey,
life
is complicated.” She gestured to the slumped, bleary-eyed patrons around them in the upstairs smoking lounge. “And it’s a good thing, too, because otherwise we wouldn’t need vices and I’d be out of business.”